where do we go from here, my friend?
Friday, February 1, 2008
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"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,/You cannot say, or guess, for you know only/A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,/And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,/And the dry stone no sound of water. Only/There is shadow under this red rock,/(Come in under the shadow of this red rock,/ And I will show you something different from either/Your shadow at morning striding behind you/Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;/I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
But in her web she still delights/ To weave the mirror's magic sights,/ For often through the silent nights/ A funeral, with plumes and lights/ And music, went to Camelot;/ Or when the Moon was overhead,/ Came two young lovers lately wed./ "I am half sick of shadows," said/ The Lady of Shalott.
"And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,/End in the Nothing all Things end in--Yes-/Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what/Thou shalt be--Nothing--Thou shalt not be less."
My First Love: Zero!
Through the Looking Glass
